The night he left wasn’t loud. There was no screaming, no dramatic scene, no shattered plates or slammed doors. It was worse than that—quiet, deliberate, almost rehearsed. He stood in the doorway with a small suitcase, like he was heading out on a business trip instead of walking away from a life we had built over nearly two decades. Eight kids were asleep upstairs, unaware that by morning, everything they knew would be different.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “I need something… different.”
